


But It's Better If You Do

by Tony



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Lapdance, M/M, One Shot, Original Character(s), Pining, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tony/pseuds/Tony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Eames' 21st birthday and he's dead set on making the most of his night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But It's Better If You Do

**Author's Note:**

> The sexy times are 100% consensual and everyone is OF AGE, surprise! 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this. Like, a lot. It's rare that I'm happy with my own work, and I really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> If it wasn't obvious, the fic is HEAVILY inspired by Panic! At the Disco's music video, "but it's better if you do".

Arthur Penrose was the most beautiful creature that Eames had ever seen. The nape of Arthur’s neck, so commonly on display, made Eames’ mouth water, his prick jump in his pants, made him cum at night when he was alone and too lazy to watch porn on the internet. Arthur’s ridiculously long pianist fingers, always drumming on his desk impatiently, were a thing of perfection. Eames wanted them in his mouth, around his cock, in his ass…

Everything about Arthur made Eames feel inadequate, including Arthur’s test scores, which were always at the very tip-top of the class. Arthur made Eames feel stupid in so many ways, ways that did not always have to do with their shared classes on Mondays and Wednesdays.

Most of all, Eames felt stupid for being barking mad in love with a classmate that had a girlfriend.

Ariadne was always at Arthur’s heels, her arm looped through his, their steps in time with each other, their matching smiles making Eames’ heart ache painfully in his chest.

_Of course_ Eames would pick a straight bloke to fall in love with, **of course**.

They’d spoken a few times. Eames’ tongue would get thick in his mouth, his accent would play itself up and make his words almost unintelligible to American ears, and he’d laugh at everything Arthur said, even if it wasn’t meant to be funny. Eames was a bloody wreck around the boy. At least they only shared two classes-- Eames didn’t think he’d be able to function if he had to share any more breathing space with the boy.

Every Monday and Wednesday, Eames would spend all of his composition class and all of his psychology class staring at Arthur, getting very little work done. And every night he’d go home to his shared apartment and his dog, eat a meager TV dinner or ramen cup, and then do his homework til he passed out. It was a very boring life. Once or twice he’d almost worked up the courage to ask Arthur if he ever wanted to hang out, but being friends with Penrose would probably be even more torturous.

_Better to admire from afar_ , Eames decided disparagingly.

+

The morning of Eames’ 21st birthday had the young man waking to a beer bottle being shoved in his hand by his roommate, and his boxer licking his face excitedly.

“Fuck Yusuf, it’s barely 8AM! I can’t drink yet, I won’t want to stop…”

Grinning, Yusuf took a swig from his own beer. “Go to class drunk. Live a little.”

Eames smiled wryly. “I’ll pass, cheers.”

Instead of spending the day getting shitfaced like Yusuf had on his own 21st, Eames decided he’d hit the bars after dark. Or rather, go to a strip club he’d been eyeing for a while, one that catered to both men _and_ women. He’d seen it in town: a cabaret with green and blue and pink tack lights on the outside that lit up the building attractively, baroque architecture that would be misleading but for a sign out front telling what the week’s theme of dress was (this week was Masquerade). It was always packed, especially late at night. Eames wanted to go in, just to see what it was like on the inside, if it was as tantalizing as the outside promised.  

Eames went to classes, did his work, and then went by a novelty craft store to pick up a cheap Venetian style mask with feathers and intricate beading to go along with the cabaret theme of the week. He picked one up for Yusuf as well, and then went back to their shared apartment to prepare for the evening.

+

It gave Eames a little thrill to flash his identification at the guards when prompted, his lips turning up in a smug grin when one of them wished him an offhand happy birthday before letting them through the beautiful glass doors. With Yusuf right behind him, Eames felt confident and sure of himself as they entered the lobby and were greeted by a woman in a feathered mask and a low-cut bustier, opera gloves and several pearl necklaces looped around her thin neck.

“Good evening gentlemen. Do you know the rules?” came her honey-sweet voice, a French accent that had Eames’ heart racing a little faster.

For the briefest of seconds he questioned his sexuality. And then the doors to the main hall opened and a pair of sexy twinks in jeweled masks with nothing other than skin-tight boyshorts came out, laughing and giggling with each other, and Eames was reminded that he loved cock too much to ever do anything more than appreciate a woman’s beauty from a safe (nonsexual) distance.

Yusuf spoke up, fingering the mask in his hands with a crooked smile. Yusuf was straight, loved women, was a bit of a playboy. He was probably half hard already with the woman’s accent pouring over the two of them like that. “We’ve never been here. Or, to a strip club actually.”

The woman put her hands on her hips and tutted. “This is a _cabaret_ , boys,” she drawled, ruby red lips full and perfect for framing her accented words, “Just go in, take a seat, and one of ours will find you. There’s food and drink if you like, and remember to tip your waitress. If you get a lap dance, there’s no touching, only admiring, understand? If you’d like something more, we have an upper floor where you can take one of our lovely boys or girls and get to know them a bit better-- for a higher price, of course. Any questions so far?”

Eames shook his head, shifting his weight to the other foot nervously. With alcohol in him and so many gorgeous bodies, would he be able to contain himself? He licked his lips in anticipation, adrenaline already pumping eagerly through his veins.

“Mm. Good. Entry is ten dollars, five for the birthday boy. If you need anything, just ask a server or one of our staff. Bathrooms are in the back,” she waved, and took the money the boys offered her, passing back their ID’s as well. She smiled, her teeth on full display. “ _Enjoy yourselves, boys._ ”

They were ushered through the tall glass doors and into the main hall then, the lights set dim and the music just loud enough to have to face someone when talking to them for a conversation to be heard.

Slipping his mask into place, Yusuf immediately caught the gaze of a short brunette passing by and leaned into Eames with a randy grin, “I daresay we’re parting ways, friend. I’ll be over here appreciating God’s gift to man if you need me.”

Eames laughed and shooed him away, slipping his own mask into place and smoothing the front of his deep red dress shirt, his black slacks already feeling a little tight at the smell of sweat and alcohol in the air. So many beautiful men and women around, Eames wondered if he’d brought enough money. He could always come back another day… He should have asked up front how much it cost to get one of these lovely boys upstairs for some private time.

He eventually wandered towards the stage, sitting in a seat where he got full view of a young woman straddling a pole, breasts bared proudly and exposed over her corset. A pearl necklace curled in loops around her neck and twisted around her tongue. It was vulgar, erotic, **_new_**. Eames didn’t know what to think, so he stared and ordered a beer when a woman came around to ask if he’d like a drink. The performance on stage didn’t hold his attention long, not with the boys wandering around donning almost nothing, some with corsets of their own, garish masks covering everything but their mouths. Some of the boys wore spiked heels, some wore flip flops. Some were covered in oil, their muscles glistening in the sparkling light, and some were grinding in the laps of older gentlemen in business suits, feral grins on their mouths that made Eames begin to sweat.

He was in a den of wolves.

It was all a little too much, and even with the beer to soothe his nerves, Eames wondered if maybe he should have just gone to a normal bar, gotten pissed and danced with strangers ‘til he ended up blowing one in the loo. He licked his lips nervously and began to rise from his seat when a hand on his shoulder startled him.

“Would you like some company?” the boy questioned in almost a drawl, his accent crisp and clear, very eastern American.

Eames balked and sat right back down, nodding dumbly. This man, this- this stripper, whatever he was, had on ridiculously high heels, pearls on his neck, his ankles, his wrists, even some around his waist. His body was lean, athletic, very young, his fingers long, with boy-shorts framing a mouthwatering little bulge that made Eames’ own prick ache in his trousers. The stranger’s mask was simple, glitter and beading that sparkled in the light as he grinned at Eames, sat down in the seat opposite of him.

“Are you staring because you like what you see or should I get one of the girls to come over for you?”

A choked laugh came from his throat and Eames finally shook his head, raising his beer to his lips to quench his suddenly fervent thirst. “You’re beautiful. I just didn’t expect it.”

The feline smile on the boy’s face fell for a moment, his brown eyes narrowed behind his mask, not in anger but in scrutiny. “Do we know each other? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Eames shook his head. “Never been here before. Sorry.”

The smile slowly returned to the dancer’s face. “Mm. Well. What’s your name?”

“Eames.”

Silence as the smile on the other young man’s face turned dubious, a finger coming to his cupid’s bow lips to slip into his mouth. He shifted in his seat and then leaned closer, stretching his neck towards Eames and putting the pale length of it on full display. Eames wanted to kiss it, badly.

“I’m Joseph. Would you like a lap dance, Eames?”

_Joseph_. It felt like a lie on Eames’ ears, but he didn’t mind. They probably weren’t allowed to give their real name or other information to customers. Eames set his empty bottle on the table and looked around, searching for Yusuf. He spotted him across the room with two different girls at his side, fawning over him while he waved his hands animatedly-- telling one of his stories it looked like. Yusuf was having a good time, so should Eames. He looked at Joseph and let out a slow breath, readying himself for the first lap dance of his life.

“Yes. I would very much like one, _Joseph_.”

Drawing his finger from his mouth, Joseph smiled secretively and stood tall and proud in his heels, reaching for Eames’ hand and ushering the Brit out of his seat. “This way, please.”

Eames was pulled near the back of the establishment, a row of couches lining the wall that were obviously used just for this sort of thing. Other men and women were spread out among the couches in various stages of being grinded on, their hands still at their sides as they were worked over, flushed and fingers twitching. Eames was sat down and immediately went rigid as the boy straddled him, draping his arms around Eames’ neck and wriggling ‘til he was comfortable.

“Ready, Eames?” Joseph asked, peering down at him from the mask like some exotic, all-knowing creature right out of Eames’ wildest fantasies.

Instead of verbalizing his answer, Eames let himself sink further into the couch, nodding curtly as his fists went to his knees, mentally preparing himself not to touch what was clearly off-limits.

The song, some indie pop American trash Eames had heard on the radio once or twice, was heavily remixed and dictated Joseph’s movements as the dancer gyrated in his lap, grinding down and then thrusting against Eames’ chest in turns. His hands bunched in the leather at his sides as Joseph slipped to the floor between his knees, began to rub his face (mindful of the mask) against Eames’ thighs, his crotch, his stomach. Eames’ breath turned shallow as Joseph crawled back into his lap and began to touch himself as he gyrated, playing with his chest muscles as if they were tits, running long, thin fingers down his torso to his pelvis, brushing against the bulge there that was still mostly soft (much to Eames’ disappointment).

Time stilled and space closed in on both of them, the only two people now in Eames’ universe as Joseph turned in Eames’ lap and began to grind down, hips stuttering and rolling obscenely as his head fell back on Eames’ shoulder, adam’s apple bobbing as he let out his own long sigh. Eames momentarily played with the idea of turning his mouth an inch and a half to the left and pressing a kiss to Joseph’s lips, open and wet and waiting as they were.

“So are you a top or a bottom, Mr. Eames?”

The question shocked Eames out of his reverie and he looked away, trying to focus on the painting hanging on a nearby wall instead of the arse grinding down on his rock-hard prick. “Depends on who’s asking.”

A playful tsk as Joseph leaned forward, reverse cowgirl style, and rephrased his question. “If you were fucking **_me_** , would you top or would you bottom, Mr. Eames?”

Eames’ cock gave a hard jerk at that, his toes curling in his shoes. “Do all the dancers here ask questions like that, or are you just a particularly sadistic cocktease, darling?”

Before Joseph had the chance to answer, the song was suddenly over and Eames was gasping as the dancer dismounted and stood, legs a mile high and smirk to set fire to your soul. Joseph was barely hard, but sported a new sheen of sweat on his chest, his legs. Eames wondered if it was against the rules to wank in the w.c.

“That’s 15 bucks,” Joseph declared, arms crossed over his chest.

Eames stared, dumbfounded with lust for a moment before he realized that he’d just received something he had to pay for, rather than something as a favor from someone who was mutually attracted to him. He could feel his erection waning already.

Pulling the money from his wallet, Eames watched in a daze as Joseph took it, stuffed it in his boy-shorts, and gave one last polite smile.

“I-I bet you get this all the time,” Eames started, stepping closer into Joseph’s personal space. In those heels, the dancer was taller than him by a good 5 inches, and Eames had to look up, his face flushed and palms sweating like he was still 14 instead of 21. “But I’d like to know if you’d ever want to go out for a drink. You know… off-duty?”

Joseph stared a moment and then laughed. It wasn’t cruel, but it hurt to hear—an indulgent thing, something a parent would give a child. Eames felt like he already knew the answer. He shouldn’t have bothered, fuck. Maybe if he laughed it off as a joke he could still make it out of the building with a shred of his dignity in tow.

“How much money do you have?” Joseph asked.

Eames was caught off guard. He fumbled for his wallet and checked. “I have $120 on me. Why?”

Frowning, Joseph looked around in thought before holding out his hand. “We’re not supposed to do this for under $175, but it’s your birthday, right?”

“How did you-“

“Mal told me. Woman at the front desk. Give me the $120.”

Eames forked it over (as if he could say no to this boy, this _sex kitten_ as it were) and then Joseph was turning, motioning for Eames to follow him through the light crowd of people and towards a twisting flight of stairs. He remembered the woman at the front desk mentioning an upstairs being dedicated to “getting to know” the dancers better, and Eames suddenly felt his confidence restored a little. He was hot on Joseph’s heels as they made their way to the top, past a curtain, and into a private booth, with the curtains closed behind them to loosely bar entrance.”

“Sit.”

Eames sat. And then he watched as Joseph pulled a bottle of oil from a small table nearby. The dancer flicked the cap open, poured a liberal amount into his palm, and then began to slowly massage it into his skin. Eames watched with wide eyes as Joseph’s long, delicate fingers worked over his nipples, his ribs, his stomach, over his shorts and down further still.

“Alright, birthday boy. Up here’s a different ballgame,” Joseph spoke, finishing off his legs and then settling his fingers at his hips, just below the waistband of his shorts. “Your cock stays in your pants. You can touch, but keep your fingers away from my asshole and my dick. Keep your mouth to yourself as well. For $120 you’ve got 15 minutes, and that’s me being generous. If you cum…-”

Joseph’s fingers dipped further down now, pushing his shorts passed his thighs, and Eames felt dizzy with lust as he finally got to see the other man’s prick, still soft but beautiful in all its circumcised American glory. Eames had never wanted something so badly in his life, or so he thought in that moment.

“-We’re done, no matter how much time you’ve got left.”

Eames jerked his head in a mute nod, watching as the shorts were kicked away. The jewelry, the mask, the heels were left on. As Joseph settled into his lap, Eames let his hand tentatively go to the boy’s hip. “And if _you_ cum?” asked Eames without thought, and his voice wasn’t his own in that moment, was somebody else’s, was full of lust and envy and _so much want_.

A genuine smile sprang forth on Joseph’s face. He shook his head as he began to gyrate once more, his bare arse pressing down against the growing erection poking up into him. “You’re funny,” is his only response.

As the lithe body in his lap rolled and thrust and teased, Eames stared at the mouth on Joseph’s face, the cupid’s bow that would look vaguely familiar if his brain wasn’t so clouded with lust, and the long, pale neck he yearned to mark.

The dancer began to touch himself again, slicked hands rubbing over his tits, squeezing them, going to his hips and slipping down to fondle his balls, stroke his slowly-hardening prick. He’s a beautiful creature once more, exotic and rare as a swan in a gaggle of geese. The way his back bends as he rolls his hips is frankly sinful as he thrusts his cock against Eames’ stomach, pink tongue sticking out to lave over a bottom lip. Everything is making Eames’ cock ache painfully, grow wet at the tip with anticipation.

Eames breathed heavily, one hand skittering up Joseph’s slick back to feel the deep line creasing the center, and then Joseph slid off Eames’ lap and turned around, reverse cowgirl again, and suddenly Eames has a lapful of pale, plump arse teasing his cock. For a brief moment, Eames wondered if this was reality, or if he’d gotten smashed with Yusuf and passed out, all of this a terribly erotic fantasy brought on by Eames’ pitiful loneliness.

“You’re big, I can feel it,” the dancer says, laying his back against Eames’ chest once more. His bright brown eyes were staring up at darkened grey and he smiled playfully. “How big is your cock, Mr. Eames“?”

Eames’ hand boldly went to Joseph’s hip and slid up the flat stomach, pale chest, Eames’ thumb going to a dusky pink nipple and flicking against it almost of its own accord. Eames had no idea what he was doing, had been with men before but never participated in foreplay. “I bet it’d feel damned big in your pretty pussy.”

Joseph’s smile fell, the hand stroking his prick turning lazy. “You like pussy? And here I thought you were gay. I’m a man, you know. If you want pussy I can call up one of my girls…”

Eames growled in frustration, nose buried in Joseph’s neck but lips not quite making contact, tongue just barely holding back from darting out and tasting Joseph’s sweaty skin.

A tight smile and Joseph is sliding off of Eames, turning to show his back, and bending in half at the waist to grab his ankles. “I don’t have a pussy. This is _allllll_ ass, Mr. Eames,” Joseph drawled, and to drive his point home, he slid a hand to his rear, a finger teasing over his own entrance. In this position, not only was Joseph’s arsehole right on display, but his cock and balls as well.

_No, definitely not a pussy_ , Eames thought to himself, the ache in his balls spreading to his stomach, his chest, fingers twitching and eyebrows furrowing. He’d never wanted to fuck anything so bad in his life, and that was a fact.

Joseph laughed at Eames’ obvious frustration. “You want to fuck me? You could never get this. Come back when you’re a man and we’ll talk.”

Growling deep in his chest, Eames grabbed Joseph’s hips and spun the dancer around. “Fuck you. Let me see you.”

“No,” Joseph purred, lifting one finely-toned leg to settle his heel on the arm of the leather seat. “Fuck you.”

Joseph began to stroke himself then, not bothering with the show anymore. He played, one hand fisting his slick cock, the other at his chest, fingers threading through a string of pearls and over peaked nipples. The young man clenched his jaw and stared Eames down _hard_ , a fire in his eyes that had only been there in threat before, now present in full force.

Eames breathed heavily and palmed himself, stroking through the constricting fabric. He wanted to take his dick out so bad, but that would be breaking the rules, and something told Eames that breaking such a rule would only piss Joseph off, disappoint Joseph in the little game they were playing. So Eames’ prick stayed in his pants as he stroked and watched Joseph’s face, the glistening line of his jaw, the sharp collar bones a runway model would envy. He watched Joseph’s hand as it pumped, his elbow as it jerked, his hips as they twitched.

When Joseph was near, he leaned forward and dug his fingers into Eames’ shoulder, thrusting furiously into his fist as Eames watched. Joseph’s mouth fell open and he gasped sharply as he came, spurting hotly all over the front of Eames’ shirt and dribbling down his fingers, cum hitting the painted cement floor in an audible _splat!_

There was no hope left for Eames, not when he’d been close for so long, and when he felt the spattering of white hot cum hit him in the chest, he immediately tipped over the edge as well.

A heavily silence fell as the afterglow curled around them, comfortable and yet completely uncomfortable at the same time. Joseph was the first to move, but instead of slipping away, he let himself plop down in Eames’ lap. He licked his lips and slid the mask from Eames’ face, a sharp smile tightening his lips before he leaned in and kissed the birthday boy, hot and heavy and with an absurd amount of tongue.

Eames was emotionally wrung out, unable to fight it as Joseph’s tongue swept through his mouth, licking at his teeth and lips hungrily, and when they parted, he couldn’t help an exhausted laugh. “I didn’t think that was allowed.”

Joseph slid out of Eames’ lap with a shrug and went for his shorts, stepping into them and pulling the meager piece of fabric up his legs, wriggling his hips as he tucked his softening cock away. “It’s not. Happy birthday.”

There was nothing to say to that. Eames had climaxed, which meant his time was over, and there was nothing left for him here. He stood and tried not to think about how uncomfortable his pants were, how sticky and wet, and how painful it would be to clean the dried cum out of his pubic hair later. Joseph went to the curtains and looked over his shoulder at Eames.

“Anything else?”

Eames thought for a minute. “Yeah.”

He strode over to Joseph, hand on the small of his back, and removed the mask from the young man’s face.

There was a moment between them where Eames’ smile became too wide and then immediately fell, Joseph’s eyes narrowing in question. Eames almost wept with sorrow, his post-orgasmic high vanishing in an instant.

“Is there a problem?” asked Joseph, and all at once the accent was wrong, **_too_** Eastern, the curve of his nose completely different, the eyebrows arched in a way that was too feminine. There was a widow’s peak where there shouldn’t have been, a beauty mark below Joseph’s left eye that was gorgeous but so fucking incorrect, nothing like who he thought Joseph was, nothing like….

“No, sorry. I thought maybe I knew you.”

A strange smile crossed Joseph’s face, like the boy was weirded out but too polite to say anything, and then the curtains were opened once again. The music was louder and the crowd of people on the first floor once again visible, and from this vantage point Eames could see that there were more customers than before, more dancers on stage. Eames wanted to go. Now.

“Hope to see you again, Mr. Eames,” Joseph purred, mask back in place, before scampering off towards the bar.

Eames found Yusuf and made a swift exit, Yusuf whining and waving good-bye to his new-found cabaret dancer friends.

+

On Saturday, Eames was thoroughly sick of moping around his shared apartment, and went to the movie theater by himself. He was standing in line to get some popcorn when he heard his name called. The voice was familiar, painfully so, and for a moment he thought he was imagining it. When he heard it again, he turned around stiffly, mechanically, unsure if he was ready to be social in any way, no matter who it was barking his name.

“Eames! Your name _is_ Eames, right?”

It was Arthur. Arthur-fucking-Penrose. With Ariadne on his arm, as always.

Eames hated his life.

“Hello Arthur. Lovely seeing you here,” Eames politely waved, and felt his stomach sink further as the couple approached.

“Me and Ari were coming to see that new one with George Clooney,” Arthur stated as if he’d been asked, friendly as always, the charming little shit. Ariadne nodded beside him. Eames glanced between them to see their arms looped together, as per usual.

He smiled helplessly at the two of them, cursing himself as he did so. “ _That new one with George Clooney”_ was exactly the movie he was coming to see. They’d be in the same theater. “Nice night for a date. You two are cute,” Eames commented offhand, because he was a masochist and, really, they _were_ cute. _Too_ cute. Sickeningly so.

Ariadne’s eyes widened and she began to laugh, a tinkling sound that grated on Eames ears. When she caught her breath, she asked, “Is he being serious, Arthur?”

Breaking into his own fit of nervous laughter, Arthur ducked his head and gave Eames a strange, almost apologetic smile. “We’re brother and sister, Eames. I don’t have a girlfriend. I uh… I don’t date girls.”

Eames stared for a moment. He looked between the two, at Arthur and Ariadne, the perfect couple that apparently… wasn’t a perfect couple at all. And standing here this close, he could see that they had the same eyes, the same eyebrows, the same lips… Eames’ laughter was strangled as he suddenly fought the urge to throw up. How could he have been so fucking stupid?

The resulting shot of adrenaline from hearing that Arthur is both unattached AND gay made Eames step a little closer and spit out the words he’d had bottled up in him since the first week of English Comp. “D’you want to go out some time?”

Ariadne snickered and Arthur looked taken aback. “You serious?”

“Dreadfully serious. I want to buy you dinner.”

A flush crept onto Arthur’s face and he ducked his head again shyly, dimples coming out of hiding as he smiled beautifully at Eames. “Yeah. Okay. But um, after the movie is okay, right?”

Eames laughed again, seemingly unable to stop now that he’d started. He felt incredibly light-hearted. “Yes Arthur, whenever you want. I’ll wait as long as I have to.”

+

Monday’s English Comp class found Eames sitting in a new seat, and the beautiful nape of Arthur’s neck covered in a ring of purple—a claim staked by Eames himself. With their fingers laced together between their seats, one would think they’d never seen a happier new couple.


End file.
